Aesthetic Shadows
by Kiba aru Tenshi
Summary: If there was one thing Soren Algaston could change about his life..it would be the virus he is forced to 'live' with. Barely even twenty, he may never know the joys that others get to experience and take for granted..
1. Flawed

Disclaimer: Soren (XD) Tran, Luke and so on and so forth are all property of Poppy Z.   
Brite. Really, I just wanted to write a story about Soren! (And I'm still not sure where it's   
going) So this is the start of it. Reviews are always appreciated, thank you!  
  
Okamanootoko@aol.com  
  
"When all the leaves have fallen and turned to dust, will we remain entrenched in our ways?"--Bauhaus  
  
Aesthetic Shadows  
-Chapter 1-  
  
It wasn't enough. It was never enough.  
  
Soren stared, transfixed, at the pallid palms of his hands, shaking slightly as he   
tried to conquer a bout of nausea. He had been crouched before the porcelain seat for   
some time now, his stomach desperately trying to heave out anything he might have   
injested recently, but failing miserably. His mind was blank; the only thought that ran   
through it in a constant stream was the bitter realization that nothing would stop this   
monster from devouring his insides. He had never felt as desperate as he did at that   
moment, his guts churning, his head pounding, and his mouth burning. Nor had he ever   
felt as angry, he didn't understand why this senseless virus was eating away at his life   
and he didn't understand why he might never live to see thirty, all he understood was   
Lucas Ransom's outlook on the world. Although he had never before held it against the   
world that he should be one of the unfortunates to have their death neatly labeled on a   
vial of blood, he now found himself thinking Luke's words, and agreeing with them...  
  
  
"Well, shit, Martyr...why don't we give a big shout-out to all the breeders who   
tune into our show for a sick way to appease themselves and make them feel better for not   
being us. Trade places with us for a few fucking months, or years...however long it takes   
for the sickness to set in for you. I'd like to see how you would handle being split open   
from the inside, a sepulchral banquet for a virus with an insatiable appetite...something   
100 times smaller than a sperm cell yet able to bring the biggest man to his knees, puking   
his guts out and praying for death. Let's see how humble you are when your body   
becomes nothing but wreckage, held together only by your will to stick around"  
  
  
That was about six months ago, when his pirate radio station WHIV was the one   
thing that motivated Soren to get off his ass and do something, be committed to   
something as opposed floating through the rest of his years in a mindless haze all because   
of an uncertain death sentence. It had been two months since he had last seen Luke, after   
he quit WHIV, the writer had just disappeared and Soren hadn't heard from him since.   
He worried that Luke had checked out in a similar manner that their friend Johnnie had   
when the radio station shut down, but then again, he hadn't seen or heard from Luke's ex-  
boyfriend Tran either, so perhaps they had gotten back together after all and left New   
Orleans for good. It didn't sound plausible, but it made sense, and it made Soren feel a bit   
better.   
  
Wiping his mouth free of a thin line of spit that coated his lower lip, Soren sat   
back, his chest heaving with heavy, exhausted breaths. The nausea let up, and he dropped   
his head back against the wall. Emerald eyes of startling sharpness gazed over the   
contents of his bathroom, bathed in an iridescent light. It was cluttered with hastily   
discarded clothes in an effort to find 'the look' but other than that was rather orderly.   
Soren thrived on organization; he was prone to freak out should he misplace whatever   
object he desired at the time. This, he had noted at one time, drove the few friends that   
did come over insane.  
  
The incessant ringing of the phone jarred Soren out of his tranquility. He   
murmured a silent 'no', unwilling to get up, knowing movement might throw his body for   
a loop and he'd be back to dry heaving, but who ever it was on the other line must have   
had something urgent to say, because they didn't take the hint that Soren might not be   
home. Of course he hadn't hooked up his answering machine, not after the stream of   
obsessed calls from a fling who began to leave death threats on his tape, telling him he   
was going to find out where he lived and then stalk him, rape him, and murder him if he   
'didn't pick up the fucking phone'. They never worried Soren, he knew they were   
harmless, but they did get somewhat tiresome. Waking up at 3 in the morning to someone   
screaming his name in that way was not a pleasant experience.  
  
After twenty or so rings, Soren braced himself on the edge of the tub and pulled   
himself up, feeling ridiculously old for a nineteen year. Of course you'll be the ripe old   
age of twenty next week Soren! His mind quipped cheerfully as his bare feet lazily padded   
across the polished wooden planks of his floor and made their way over to cordless phone   
positioned atop his nightstand. He plopped back into the satin sheets that instantly   
molded to the curves of his body and languidly reached over to retrieve the phone.  
  
It clicked on as soon as he picked it up, but as he cradled the smooth plastic of the   
phone between his shoulder and his ear, all he heard was some kind of shuffling. There   
were seemingly endless seconds of silence, then a short low buzz, and finally a voice   
crackled into the phone, as if coming over an intercom.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
The voice was hesitant, unsure of either himself or calling Soren. Soren waited for   
a moment, and then ventured "...for what?"  
  
As if Soren's voice triggered some reflex, the phone on the other end was hung   
up. An eerie silence, with Soren on one end and god knew who on the other. He thought   
he heard breathing, but it might have been his own worried breath echoing into the   
receiver. What had just happened? Quickly, to disconnect himself with whoever might   
have still been on the line, he pressed 'end' and returned the phone to its rightful home.  
  
He had never favored phones. Used them, of course, but they were so impersonal.   
Soren thought of himself as a good judge of character, but without facial expressions,   
body movements; without feeling the person's breath even, he quickly lost any ability to   
read anything about the person he was conversing with. All of this said, the phone was more   
for business calls than personal, asking him out somewhere, telling him a snippet of   
news...he never spilled his guts to anyone over a phone line, not like some people. To   
some it was a comfort, not being able to see or judge the reactions on someone's face, but   
to Soren that was a cop-out, and more so, knowing how they reacted was much better   
than guessing.   
  
His nausea didn't return as predicted, one small victory for his body. Feeling   
better about this, he rolled over onto his side and slid off his bed. His sheets slipped off as   
well, and collected beside his feet in an ivory pool. Now that he was no longer feeling   
sick, he discovered his stomach was gnawing at him in hunger. It had been awhile since   
he had last eaten, so he felt no guilt about deciding to treat himself to some greasy   
takeout. He thought of Chinese, but just as soon discarded that thought. Anything oriental   
made him think of Tran, and in the depths of his heart he knew his reasoning was no   
more likely to happen than it would be for him to have been abducted by aliens. He   
would never forget the last look he had seen on Tran's face before he climbed out of   
Soren's car and began to walk in the direction of the French Quarter. It was a mixture of   
anticipation, anxiety, and dread. There was also a flicker of knowledge in those dark   
golden brown eyes, Soren may not ever know what became of Tran, but even then there   
was proof that Tran had always known of his own destiny.  
  
Soren couldn't even remember how many times he had wished for just an inkling   
of what the future held in stock for him.   
****  
  
  



	2. Incomplete

(Sorry the continuation of this story was delayed for so long...but I went on a two-week vacation and I also encountered a road block. Now that I know roughly where I'm going with this story, it should progress reasonably faster)  
  
"I am every fucking thing and just a little more. I sold my soul but don't you dare call me a whore. And when I suck you off, not a drop will go to waste. It's really not so bad, you know, once you get past the taste."--NIN  
  
  
-Chapter two-  
  
The metal lid of the coffee can gave in to the can opener with a resigned sigh. The paper cup shivered between jittery hands as it was placed underneath the coffee maker. With the press of a button, Luke sat back and waited as his morning brew dribbled out from the filter into the disposable cup.  
  
He had never liked coffee, but as the days crawled onward it became increasingly necessary to jerk him out of his comatose-like daze that took him from his bed to the shower, and from there to the small make-shift kitchen of his motel room. It always scalded his throat as he washed it down; sometimes throwing it back like one would a shot of vodka, but it was as if he had become numb to these pains, his tolerance to it had raised at least a degree or two since an ancient virus had ransacked his body.  
  
And yet it was still sticking it out, Luke had to give his body credit for that. If it had been up to him, he would have long since cashed in his chips and checked into whatever motel held a vacancy for him, heaven or hell. He was quite sure he had no real purpose in staying around for these final days, or months, but at the same time he was equally sure he had no real eagerness to go, nothing to look forward to.  
  
Of course there were always those persistent romantic dreams that sprouted up like fungus in the dying brain. Some smaller part of him -wanted- to believe that when he died he would join with his true love, Tran, that as soon as he rid his soul of the flesh shackles that bound him to his body, his soul would be bestowed with every luxury imaginable, even the previously unavailable state of contentment. But the more domineering part of his mind was always present, looming like a shadow over these mental pleasantries, prepared to drop like a two ton weight should he ever give these dreams any real consideration.  
  
Then he was left with only bitterness, and a hollow filled his heart. There would be no contentment for him, not even in the afterlife; he knew that as surely as he knew he was about to die. Why would Tran, whose fear of him had turned into loathing and driven him into the arms of Jay, wish to spend an eternity with Luke? In some sick turn of perversion, perhaps Tran had -enjoyed- the pain Jay had dared bestow upon him. Maybe he loved the finality of Jay's decision to fuck his insides with a knife and drink his blood like it had been produced in some concluding orgasmic offering.   
  
Luke's mind ticked over this possibility and he closed his eyes to savor the immense pain he felt jilt his heart. A masochist of the emotions, his remaining joy was ironically bestowing upon himself the worst his decrepit mind could pull together. Yes...it was always the sadistic, unhealthy pleasures that proved to be the hardest to rid yourself, but if a disease took advantage of every capability to snap the strings of life by which he clung to, was he then not allowed the ability to cast that torture on himself?  
  
He held the flimsy cup between both his hands and poised the drink so the Styrofoam hovered not millimeters from his lips, letting the warmth of the coffee dissolve away some of the ice. Then he tilted it enough to let some of the liquid splash against his lips and scald his tongue, savoring the slow rush that caffeine gave him, before draining the rest of the contents of the cup. Licking his lips, he discarded the cup in the waste bin and pulled his ancient leather jacket off the back of one of the chairs. An old friend, he'd have to write a note before he died, expressing his wishes to be cremated in it.   
  
There was a bite to the wind that stung Luke's face that demanded protection from the elements that his jacket just could not provide. As with the coffee, however, he barely noticed even as the wind burned his skin and gave his nose and his cheeks a dab of color, and quickly hustled himself down the sidewalk and two blocks away from the shabby motel, to a closet they called a café.   
  
A bell on the door jingled as he stepped inside and shook himself of the uncharacteristic chill the weather had created, a rush of warm air meeting him and causing his face to tingle as it began to thaw. His dark blue eyes scanned the poorly lit café and finally spotted the man he was supposed to be meeting, the publisher who went by the name Jeff.  
  
He slid into the booth opposite of the over eager looking young man he had met only once and had regretted it ever since. He was the high strung, nervous type, with the profile of a greyhound and a demeanor to match, and his hands were always moving. As Luke watched him now, they were fiddling with the plastic fork and knife provided courtesy of the café. Jeff managed a smile however, as he lifted his eyes to look at Luke "Glad ya could make it! I was starting to think I'd have to dine alone."  
  
The faint Texas drawl didn't seem to suit the man, it sounded pinched when spoken in the rapid pace Jeff talked in, and it made Luke wonder, from time to time, if it was a fake accent to somehow mach the uptight man seem more...interesting. "Tell me again why you wanted to meet me?"  
  
"Oh! Well...ya know, I've read some of your work. Sacred Alter, shocked me really...not normally my type of book you know, a bit too risqué, but it trapped me all the same!"  
  
Luke guessed that if Jeff's reading interests ventured from magazines like Playboy and Sports illustrated, it was more than likely condemned to books of a juvenile interest that focused more on the out and out boundary-less realm of childish fantasy than thriving in the constraints of 'realism', where there were so many outlandish names for monsters that one could hardly keep them straight yet those with arrested development somehow had a knack for it. In a word, Harry Potter. It was a miracle the man had even -heard- of his stories, let alone read them cover-to-cover. "...And?"  
  
"-And- it got my company interested...and we wondered if you had any works in progress right now? Or finished yet unpublished perhaps?"  
  
Luke knew of only one story that he had worked on since his break up with Tran, the grotesque and yet richly flavored with poison story he had written, detailing their love and their demise, and Tran's obscure death. It was a horrid piece of literature, its lack of plot hidden only in the maze of beautiful phrases Luke was capable of creating to illustrate the simple message "You love them and they fuck you over, always." It was hardly worthy of being published, but Luke believed he could get his jollies by handing the thick stack of arranged papers and seeing the look on his face as he read through some of the more 'risqué' scenes. So against his better judgment, he nodded slowly. "I have...something near completion."  
  
"Really? Well that's great! You think you might want to drop it by Ballantine Books sometime? I'd love to read it and I'm sure there's a market for your type of thing." Jeff folded his hands together, a grin spreading from ear to ear as if he had just reached payday.  
  
He shrugged, and refrained from inquiring into what exactly the man must have thought his 'thing' was. When the waitress finally wandered by, he ordered a club sandwich and a root beer, and was surprised when Jeff got up to go to the bathroom, a familiar body slid into his seat.  
  
"Luke! Remember me? I haven't seen you in ages."  
  
Luke resisted the urge to scoff at such a ridiculous question as he laid his eyes on Soren. He wasn't the type of guy that would work with someone for months, screw, and then somehow miraculously forget the other had ever graced the face of the Earth.   
  
"I thought you might have ran off with Tran or something..."  
  
His innocent assumption of Luke's and Tran's fate almost made look want to cry. Almost. If tears hadn't long been lost to him as the comforts of humanity were shed from his withering body. "No...no, I haven't seen Tran around, and sorry for...uh, not getting into contact with you--"  
  
"Don't worry about it." Soren waved his hand, sensing how uncomfortable it made Luke to actually feel the need to apologize. "I know you're a real busy guy."  
  
"Hmph, busy...right...." Only if lying awake at night and staring at the ceiling counting the little grainy bumps counted as business, or staring at yourself in the mirror and watching your flesh melt away until a skull stared back blankly at you. But if Soren was none the wiser, Luke would do nothing to make him more so.  
  
"It's good to see you..." Soren said shyly, and reached across the table to lightly grasp Luke's hand in his. Luke was taken aback by how timid Soren was acting, and how he found himself actually returning the statement, and meaning it. Perhaps he had underestimated the 'friendship' he and Soren had shared. It was a pleasant shock, but an unnerving one as well.  
  
They began to talk to catch up on everything that had happened in the months following their rendezvous, and Luke would later only remember one time where he wondered if Jeff had fallen into the toilet, but he was too caught up in the moment to care. It was cheesy, he knew, but for that brief period of time he actually felt like he was acting on genuine emotion, not playing the shadow role he had adopted for so long.  
  
Across the café, tucked into a dark corner where he was easily missed, a man watched the pair with an interest that bordered on obsessive. His fingers drummed the table lightly as he sipped at his tea in a mechanic manner, his eyes honing in specifically on the beautiful bleached blonde boy. Soren...the aloof tech-head that had turned him down for a date on the spot, in the politest manner possible. Soren...the pained child who hid his sorrows behind makeup. Yes, he was perfect, the man had always known that...but with each moment that passed, the need to have him as one of his own became increasingly more urgent. All of the personalities that rampaged through one body, Margaret, Johnny, Nate...all agreed that they needed him, but it was the personality occupying his mind at the moment that proved to be the most dangerous. Finally he set the cup down with a determined clack.  
  
Soon Soren would be his and his alone, and he would have no need to be jealous.   



End file.
